What I most looked forward to when going on holiday was the airports. I'd fill my trips with one-night stopovers so I could fit in as many flights as possible, because there was nothing as good out there in those foreign cities as there was in their airports, where security guards would run their hands up and down your body for free.

Wearing clothes that stank of marijuana, I'd walk through the barriers with metallic things concealed on my person, deep in my trouser pockets and stitched into my jackets. I even went through the pain of exotic piercings to lengthen the chase.

I'd act uncooperatively so they'd take me to a private room and search me, and when I was there I'd offer them money to come and frisk me in my hotel — an offer they all declined until I met Pedro, who kissed me on the lips, said his shift finished in half an hour and he'd come back to my place for free.

Yet when he appeared by the taxi rank he wasn't wearing his uniform, and when we checked in at my hotel there was no frisking at all, he just took off my clothes and went straight for my dick. I gave him what he wanted, said yes, I really would meet him at a bar later that evening, then rearranged my flights so I wouldn't have to pass through security during his shift.